


a vault in the wall

by kitseybarbours



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Boss/Employee Relationship, Clothed Sex, Dubious Consent, F/M, Hate Sex, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Manipulation, Manipulative Relationship, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:33:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27069436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitseybarbours/pseuds/kitseybarbours
Summary: ‘Why?’ she asks him again, low. He glances at her with polite interest. ‘What possible reason can you have for bringing me here?’‘My dear Miss King,’ he says. ‘I own you. I can do whatever I like with you. You seem often to forget that; so tonight, I thought I would remind you.’
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Melanie King
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39





	a vault in the wall

* * *

We seal our weapons inside and pretend we don't want to kill each other in front of the partygoers.

_["Some Conversational Models," Suerynn Lee](https://www.newyorker.com/humor/daily-shouts/some-conversational-models) _

* * *

_‘Why?’_

It's all she can say when he tells her— _tells,_ not asks; it’s always like this, isn’t it, with him—that she is to accompany him to the Institute’s annual fundraising gala this Sunday.

Elias raises an eyebrow and looks at her with cool amusement. ‘I need,’ he says, ‘a date.’ The word is mocking, almost cruel. ‘Going alone would create…talk.’

‘Cool,’ she bites out, ‘but why _me?_ You hate me. More to the point, _I_ hate _you.’_

‘And there,’ says Elias pleasantly, ‘you have your answer. Be ready at eight, Miss King.’

* * *

On Saturday morning a box arrives on her doorstep, elegantly wrapped in shimmering charcoal paper and tied with a silky black bow. She scowls down at it, considers stomping on it or throwing it in the trash, even as she is picking it up and carrying it furtively inside and opening it, tearing back layers of dove-grey tissue paper.

A dress: she had expected as much. Black, with a deep V-neck and short wide sleeves, the skirt ending just above the knees. It’s chiffon, far too light for the weather; already she feels underdressed.

She lifts it out, lays it aside. Beneath it—she almost recoils when she feels the slippery lace under her fingers. Lingerie, panties and a bra, in a startling shade of sea-blue, soft but vibrant and nearly the colour of the dyed half of her hair. Her favourite colour. Something she would have picked for herself. A shiver passes through her.

There is no note, of course, but she knows very well who it’s from.

* * *

She is ready at eight. She considered stalling, making him wait, but in the end saw little point to doing so; it likely would not have ended well for her. As soon as she steps outside, holding a small clutch, unsteady in the too-high heels she dug up from far back in her closet (when did she last wear them? A formal in uni? The podcast awards, years ago, a lifetime away?), a long black car purrs to a stop in front of her house. It seems to take up the entire street.

The back door opens. He leans out, polished, coiffed, and appraises her with satisfaction. ‘Miss King,’ he says. ‘You look lovely.’

She slides inside and sits with a huff. ‘I hope you’re not expecting a thank-you.’

‘Mm. Not in so many words, perhaps.’ His hand alights on her knee. She tenses. He smiles.

‘Driver,’ he says, ‘off we go.’

* * *

It’s a long drive. The gala, she gleans, is not in London, but one of those four-million-pound manors in some commuter town or other. Ordinarily she would sleep on the drive. Tonight, of course, is not ordinary.

Over the course of the drive, his hand makes its way from her knee; to her thigh; to the hem of her skirt. She glowers at him. His cool slender fingers slip beneath her dress, and higher still. She waits, trembling—with fear?—and stifles a hiss when they brush the lace between her legs and then push it aside.

He touches her with skill, as he always does, but too with shocking dispassion, staring out the window all the while. The city lights pass in a blur as Melanie fights not to shudder, not to moan and arch into his touch. Against her will she feels herself getting closer and closer, and why not, really, she may as well let it happen; maybe the rest of the night will be more bearable if she’s already come.

He stops, then, just as she is about to give herself over. Now she cannot stifle her cry: upset, startled, like a child torn away from her favourite toy.

Elias’ eyes glint. He removes his fingers from her cunt, and holds them before his face. ‘Why, Miss King,’ he says softly, admiring. They glimmer wetly in the dark.

* * *

There are too many people. A wave of heads turn when they enter, and a careful round of applause breaks out when Elias is recognised. Curious glances follow them—she hears whispers _—Who is she? Young for him—and I thought he was married—_ but Elias is gracious and charming and untouchable. His hand is light at the small of her back; she feels it like a brand.

The gazes that meet hers are by turns surprised, curious, and openly hostile. She is younger than anyone here; she wishes now she had done her hair differently; the neon blue of her bob feels like a target, a flare. She is mortified to find her legs unsteady, the aftermath of the release he refused to grant her in the car. She is humiliated already, and they haven’t even sat down.

‘Why?’ she asks him again, low. He glances at her with polite interest. ‘What _possible_ reason can you have for bringing me here?’

‘My dear Miss King,’ he says. ‘I own you. I can do whatever I like with you. You seem often to forget that; so tonight, I thought I would remind you.’

* * *

All through dinner, his hand is up her skirt. He eats with one hand, and makes genteel conversation, laughing with donors and drinking fine wine. With the other hand he touches her. She is still wet from before. She does not eat; rage chokes her.

She tries to school her expression but winds up with what she can feel to be a fierce scowl. Between courses he leans over to her, his breath ghosting along her neck, and whispers, ‘Do try to smile. You look so sweet when you do.’

She fights the urge to rake her nails down his face. Instead, she drops her napkin and escapes under the table to retrieve it. While there, she presses a hard, firm hand between his legs, and listens with burning satisfaction as he gasps in the middle of a sentence, cutting off the punchline of the anecdote he is telling.

* * *

He has his revenge during the dessert course. Cracking the sugared top of his crème brûlée with one hand, he pushes her flimsy knickers aside again with the other, and presses one long finger inside of her. She clenches instinctively and her spoon clatters into her dish. Gazes are drawn to the sound. People are watching.

His thumb strokes her clit, just hard enough, as he looks at her with infinite concern. ‘Why, Miss King, is everything all right?’

She comes silently, with gritted teeth, and she hates him.

* * *

There is dancing. She should have known there would be dancing. He takes her by the hand and leads her out, as a chamber orchestra begins to play—something—‘Dvořák,’ he tells her pleasantly. ‘My favourite of his serenades.’

‘I don’t care,’ she says.

‘Mm.’ He grips her waist. ‘Follow my lead.’

She manages better than she thought she would. Elias is surprisingly good at this, and it’s easier than she would have expected to follow his motions, let him take over. ‘Good,’ he murmurs once or twice, and she resents the low thrill of pleasure that hums through her. 

The strings are rich and swooning, and she lets herself relax into his touch. Almost, almost, she feels as though they are equals—a far cry from the hours in his office, those hours when he takes her completely, body and mind. Those hours for which she reaches when she cannot sleep, and touches herself, her head resounding with a whisper of his name. She hates herself for it, and hates still more that she can’t seem to stop.

All at once she’s had enough. The music changes, darkens, still lush but tinged with danger. She stops the dance abruptly, nearly knocking over another couple. His hands tighten: ‘Melanie,’ he warns her, his voice still cordial and light.

‘No,’ she says. This time she grabs his wrist. ‘You’re following me.’

* * *

The house has a library. (Good God, she hates rich people.) She drags him inside; it’s dark but for the moonlight; faint music followed them here, and curious gazes. Even now they are alone, she can feel strange eyes on her. She blames him.

She backs him against a wall and hisses, ‘You _disgust_ me. Forcing me to come here—touching me like that in _public—_ not to mention what you do to me at _work,_ my _God,_ Elias, will it ever be enough? When are you going to stop? You already told me how my father died. You _use_ me whenever you want. What else are you going to take from me?’

‘Oh, Miss King,’ he murmurs, almost tenderly. ‘Everything.’

She wishes she could say that he was the one to kiss her, but she knows she would be lying. She is ravenous, furious, her tongue in his mouth even as she scrabbles for his belt, and when he lifts her easily and presses her back to the door and finally, finally thrusts into her, the scream that looses itself from her throat is not purely one of rage.

He tells her exactly what he is doing to her. He tells her exactly what she is going to do to him. He fucks her in slow, deliberate thrusts, his fingers working her clit without mercy, and she claws at his chest and pounds fists on his back and begs him, begs him, _let me come, let me come, please, please, Elias, please._

When she does, it is with a wordless shudder; she feels like a firework, sputtering out. Her face is wet with tears. She does not remember crying. He holds her close to him for a moment, just long enough to catch her breath, and then he looks her in the eyes, his gaze almost benevolent but still—always—just inhuman enough to chill her to the bone.

Elias smiles. He strokes her cheek. ‘On your knees, I think, Miss King.’

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Title and inspiration from the _New Yorker_ 's “Daily Shout” from 24 September 2020, [“Some Conversational Models”](https://www.newyorker.com/humor/daily-shouts/some-conversational-models) by Suerynn Lee. (No, I don't know either.)
> 
> Elias’ (and my) favourite piece by Dvořák is the [Serenade for Strings in E Major, Op. 22, B. 52: II. Tempo di valse.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J5megnjqmrU)
> 
> I’m on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/saintmontague)!


End file.
